


... and I burn for you

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Melkor, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, especially at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Maiar have been created with an interesting function built into their core: they assimilate the floating errant energy leftover from Melkor's discord in the Music. Once every few centuries, this energy requires a discharge. To achieve that, the affected Maiar need to find physical release with another.<br/>The first time it happens to Mairon, he misses the first warning signs in the overall excitement of his relocation to Utumno. So when the fever breaks, he panics. <br/>He burns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	... and I burn for you

**Author's Note:**

> If you expect plot, don't read any further. If you are, however, looking for unapologetic dark lord porn, please proceed.

Mairon cannot work. He cannot concentrate on a single task. His mind keeps running in circles and he curses the lack of productivity that follows. The forges have grown cold in the recent days for he no longer cares to feed the fires; sets of armour litter the ground, unfinished, some misshapen and damaged after he attempted to make wanton destruction an outlet for frustration. Little did that outburst accomplish but a momentary relief of the emotions pulsating within him. He has no control over them: the rage which overtakes him in sudden bursts of flame, the terror which wrings pitiful sobs from his throat, the lust which begs fulfilment but will not be satisfied, the longing for nothing and everything. He burns. Within the deep dungeons of his Master's fortress, hiding away from the presence of all living creatures, Mairon burns.

The cold stone wall provides little comfort to this fever-induced heat, but the Maia leans against it all the same, seeking after the sensation the cool surface leaves on his skin. Outside the fortress, he knows a snowstorm is afoot, but even the frozen hell of Utumno cannot extinguish the inferno that threatens to consume him whole. Silently he laughs, a choked, broken sound that carries the ring of hysteria as it reverberates in the empty forge. There is no mirth in it, no amusement; but a berating kind of mockery with which he torments himself for the committed folly.

For how could he have missed the symptoms!

His vision swims so he closes his eyes, squeezes them tightly shut, but the images which his mind supplies are even worse: pale lips form words and whisper against his ear, soft and cool to the touch as he captures them in a kiss; large white hands with long fingers wander down his chest and sides, leaving behind an imaginary trail of bliss; eyes darkened in desire mirroring his own stare back at him as though daring him to go further, to take, to devour.

_No,_ he whispers and shakes his head, but it is too late: his own body betrays him like many times before. Arousal nigh overwhelms him and for a moment the only thing he can do is breathe heavily through his nose as his entire form shivers with mad want. Easily does he give in because all resistance is futile; he wraps his own hand around the base of his hard length and brings himself off in quick, firm strokes. The orgasm feels forced and empty, it leaves him even more desperate and frustrated; angrily Mairon wipes his hand on the cloth which used to be a shirt before he shredded it in wordless fury: his Master's shirt stolen from the pile of laundry, no longer carrying even a slightest remnant of Melkor's scent which he craves so much.

Frustrated and fuming, Mairon stands nigh-naked in the deserted forge before he allows himself to sink to his knees. Exhaustion overtakes him, the sort that makes him feel drained of all that he is, but there is no rest from the torment he has found himself in. Underneath his eyelids, Mairon sees flickers of his Master's mind, hints of images and vague impressions mixing with his own thoughts flapping chaotically around his head like trapped birds; the thin tendril of his fëa that connects him to Melkor pulsates gently, as though satisfied with the briefest contact even when Mairon's whole being is craving more.

'I cannot stay here,' he whispers to the emptiness and even his own voice sounds foreign to him in this state: hoarse from the cries of self-inflicted, short-lived pleasure that he had to stifle as to not be heard, from the sobs and the heaving when desire turned to disgust at his own weakness, when his mouth tasted of bile and his tongue felt as though burned to coal. He may have thrown up blood, he may have not; it is difficult to say because everything is coated in a red haze that clutches at his mind like a thick storm cloud.

Nobody warned him it would feel like this. Nobody told him that his very nature would reduce him to a state of being so pitiful, so wretched; that he would be unable to dedicate himself to any task or even conversation. _All Maiar are bound to this **blessed** fate_ , he thinks and a bitter kind of laughter bubbles up inside his chest. It hurts his dry throat and turns into a cough.

They only taught him to heed the first signs, but even that he hardly remembered once he left the lands of the Valar to join his Master in Middle-earth. He wrote off the low tolerance for cold temperatures to the sudden relocation to the ice fortress from the peaceful and boring warmth of Almaren; the headaches, difficulties with concentration, the restlessness – they all were so easy to attribute to simple over-excitement at his new role in Melkor's kingdom. He rejoiced at the spike to his spell-casting abilities and took them as a reward for finally breaking the chains of imprisonment to his former Master, and he completely missed the moment when the fire in his soul changed from the familiar flames of creativity and ambition to a dangerous hungry heat which threatened to devour all on its path – which still threatens to consume him.

Maybe it is easier for those who go through it in the Blessed Lands. Maybe the closeness of other Maiar soothes the ravenous lust; and certainly for his estranged kin it must be a simple matter of finding a suitable mate. The only way to satisfy this humiliating fever is through the act of physical release with another, one who would be capable of withstanding the powerful discharge of energy accumulated throughout the centuries of the cycle. Mairon knows the principle of this: he knows how after the Music, the Maiar were all equipped by Eru Iluvatar with a single flaw which some perceive as a blessing: they fulfil the purpose of cleansing Arda. Upon reaching full maturity, all Maiar begin a cycle in which the fëa assimilates the wild discordant energy flowing freely across the world – the remnant of the theme that Melkor introduced to the Music at its Beginning. Those leftover notes of sentient chaos are kept inside the fëa, dormant for long years, unnoticed by the host who carries them. Through the closeness of the Fire Imperishable which burns inside all beings of Iluvatar, the discord is purified from the energy which becomes the Maia's own, until it grows too vast and threatens to explode for no inferior being is capable of withstanding such infinite might that even a Vala would not be able to stand up to. The fëa reacts to the threat by unleashing wave upon wave of overwhelming physical desire, thus enforcing the release of the purified energy which returns to the universe upon fulfilment of the cycle through physical fulfilment with another.

Mairon – hates this. Hates the role he was given upon the beginning of his very existence. Hates that he is helpless, that his entire being serves as a sieve for the goal of cleansing the world of his Master's influence. Most of all, he hates the part of himself, the small tendril of his fëa which boldly reached out and attached itself to the mightiest source of power it could find: to the bright frozen flame of Melkor's spirit, thus connecting Mairon to the dark Vala who remains unaware of the presence of such a connection. In Almaren, Eönwë called this _imprinting_. He claimed it only complicated matters a little, but then again, the Valar find nothing wrong with engaging in a consensual physical tryst with their Maiar even outside the cycle.

Melkor is-

Mairon bites down hard on his lower lip, both to reign in the moan of pure unadulterated _want_ that the thought of his Master provokes and to punish himself for harbouring such ideas of the dark Vala at all. As opposed to his inferior brethren, Melkor is hardly a physical being. He is barely attached to the body he made for himself, treating it as though a piece of garment: comfortable in use for its intended purposes but with no needs of its own. The senses as Mairon knows them do not apply to Melkor; he is unaffected by touch or temperature, he smells no scents and feels no taste. Indeed such things would be useless to one as mighty as him. With senses come limitations and the dark Vala will not be imprisoned by a body of flesh.

He desires for nothing but the entire world. Mairon's folly is of no concern to him, surely.

Yet the Maia cannot help the fantasies which flood his mind. In these feverish daydreams, he pins Melkor to the stone wall and steals kiss after kiss from his Master's soft gasping lips. He explores Melkor's mouth with his tongue, he tastes the eternity embedded into Melkor's soul. He maps his Master's entire body with fleeting touches and gentle caresses, he marks the pale skin with his teeth and fingernails. He drinks down the soft noises of pleasure Melkor makes – and the dream is mirrored by reality when he produces a twin noise as he once more strokes himself to fruitless completion.

Melkor is out of his reach, will always be, and Mairon is ashamed of the blasphemous ideas his overtired mind conjures. He bangs his head on the wall, repeatedly, enough to hurt – the pain anchors him to the reality, helps him think clearly for precious moments. He needs to resolve this. He needs release.

If he does not find a way to counter this madness, the thrumming heat inside of him will rip him to shreds; but no solution exists inside the walls of the ice fortress. Outside, he needs to flee outside: in the wilds of the eastern lands surely he would meet somebody willing to engage with him in a meaningless one-time tryst-

The powerful presence of his Master surrounds him as though waves of thickening smoke before he can fully sense it approaching. As ever, Melkor has no reason to announce his arrival: he comes as he wills, aware that nobody would dare oppose him. Mairon panics; clumsily he attempts to hide himself from sight, to shroud himself in illusion and when that fails – he cannot concentrate, he cannot weave the simplest spell – he frantically pulls at the lacing of his trousers to cover his nudity. His hands are shaking, his throat feels dry, his breath comes in ragged gasps that ring too loud in his ears. Fear clutches at his guts, crippling fear that his secret will be discovered in such a degrading manner.

'My lord,' he tries to say in reply to Melkor's greeting, but what comes out instead is a shaky, incoherent moan. From where he is sat on his knees, bereft of clothing and without a shred of dignity left, he sees the puzzlement on his Master's face, but he lacks the words to offer an explanation. The part of his fëa latched to Melkor's is positively ablaze, thrumming in wild excitement fed by Melkor's closeness and it is impossible for Melkor not to sense the imprint now; realizing this, Mairon bites down on a desperate sob and hides his face in his hands.

'Mairon,' Melkor calls in a questioning tone that betrays his surprise at the unfolding events; like always he rolls the consonants of Mairon's name on his tongue, but through the heat of the cycle it sounds erotic in a way that sends new shivers down the Maia's spine.

_Please go away_ , Mairon wants to beg when the dark Vala comes closer as if to inspect him more clearly; and some of the plea must transfer through the connection because Melkor stops in his tracks and furrows his brow in confusion.

'What is going on?' Asks the dark Vala sharply.

Mairon shakes his head, unable to speak, unable to communicate his state in a way which his Master would understand. Oh, if he could only reach out and pull Melkor into his arms! Just briefly, just for a few instants – just to soothe the flames inside him, just to-

_Just to hold him down and **fuck him** , have him viciously, ravish him, take everything-_

The dark Vala staggers as though struck by the intensity of the onslaught of images that breaks free from Mairon's mind, unbidden; the filthiest of Mairon's fantasies fly between them in the deep silence of the cold forges and the Maia dares not lift his eyes to his Master. He has no hope left, only shame and horror. Briefly he allows the thought that mayhaps, Melkor would free him – would kill him -

'This,' the dark Vala rasps breathlessly. He clears his throat and tries again. 'This, now – Mairon? You. I thought you – I thought, with Eönwë,' he says. This lack of eloquence is most strange from him and Mairon gathers the last of his courage to look up at his Master.

Melkor's eyes are wide and dark, his pupils dilated; his breathing comes ragged, his face is flushed – _beautiful_ , Mairon thinks and the word echoes between them as though screamed. Suddenly, the Maia realizes that this is it: this is his limit. As if in slow motion he moves to stand up on shaky legs and to wrap his arms around the dark Vala's larger form. The parts of his skin that come into contact with Melkor's clothed body feel as though melting from the white hot piercing thrill of the contact but he pays no heed; no, he takes full advantage of the fact that Melkor does not attempt to fight him. It takes a great effort not to instantly start shredding the dark Vala's robes with his claws, but he makes that effort: instead he presses himself against his Master's body, grinds his hips against Melkor's thigh; the friction is – he is –

Melkor groans and pushes him away, but before Mairon can mourn the loss of contact, the dark Vala is taking off his tunic and then leaning back into the embrace; one of them moans, probably Mairon because there is no way Melkor would sound like that – so needy, so wanton, so _hungry_ – and then their mouths connect and they are kissing, and it feels – Mairon feels –

_More_ , he demands as he forces his Master against the stone wall, as he pins the dark Vala's forearms to the cold surface without once breaking the kiss. He steals with his mouth the little sound Melkor makes when his back hits the wall, tastes the snowstorm on Melkor's tongue. He needs more, he wants, and Melkor still does not fight him, does not oppose this; the air around them is too hot and Mairon feels as though he is going to black out. He bites Melkor's lower lip, laps at his open mouth, claims his lips in another searing kiss. His Master's response is clumsy, inexperienced but unmistakable: he kisses back, replicates the caress with the same ferocity Mairon is assaulting him with before he yields and surrenders himself to Mairon's ministrations with a soft gasp.

This cannot be true, but Mairon cares little at this point whether this is the reality or but another daydream; with trembling hands he rids Melkor of the remaining clothing and then he presses himself flush against the dark Vala's larger body. His hips brush against Melkor's length and Mairon can feel his Master's arousal; he groans and wraps his fingers around the base of the dark Vala's cock. It earns him a moan which he immediately captures with his mouth; then he licks a wet trail down Melkor's neck, leaves an array of bite marks on Melkor's collarbone and chest. All the while he strokes the hard length in a quick pace. He feels the wetness of precome on his hand and he sinks down to his knees before his lord. He licks his lips and gazes hungrily at the erection straining in his tight grasp. Melkor is looking down at him from under thick eyelashes, his eyes black like the Void, and Mairon wants him, wants all of him-

He laps at the tip of his Master's length and moans at the taste on his tongue; Melkor groans and bites down on his lower lip when Mairon looks up at him. The sight makes Mairon's blood boil, the sound, he needs to hear more of his Master's desire. He closes his eyes and takes the entire length into his mouth, swallows around it as he fights down his own gag reflex. The dark Vala's hands find their way to his hair where they grasp whole fistfuls in a way that verges on painful; but this pain feels so good and Mairon groans in appreciation, then moans when the resulting vibration makes Melkor tighten his grasp.

'You,' the dark Vala mutters through the pleasure Mairon is forcing on him. Then, 'I- cannot, I- Mairon,' and the name is drawn out in a long moan when the Maia releases his erection from his mouth then sucks experimentally on just the tip. He runs his tongue over the slit and once again wraps his fingers around the base. His other hand is idly stroking the inside of Melkor's thigh before Mairon dips it lower to fondle the testicles; Melkor gasps and thrusts his hips none-too-gently so that Mairon almost chokes when his mouth is filled like this. The tip of Melkor's cock brushes against the back of his throat and the burn of it forced in like this is so good. Melkor mutters something under his breath, incoherent Valarin words which get lost as soon as they leave his lips as meaningless half-moans. Mairon blinks back the sting of tears and relaxes his throat, allows his Master to fuck his mouth; the frantic pace of Melkor's thrusts feels just right, just on the perfect side of painful, and Mairon presses his fingers close to Melkor's cock to swallow them as well, to wet them with saliva. Once he thinks they are sufficiently slicked, he moves his hand low between his Master's legs and lightly brushes the spot behind the heavy balls. Melkor groans and pulls on Mairon's hair as though to stop him, but Mairon ignores it and continues the exploration; his fingers lay gentle strokes to that spot and then move up to the puckered ring of muscle. He massages the tight opening, then breaches it with one finger which he pushes in to the first knuckle.

'Ahn, nn-no,' Melkor protests weakly, but his thrusts into Mairon's mouth quicken and his hold on Mairon's hair tightens, and then all of a sudden the dark Vala moans and the thick spurt of his come fills Mairon's throat and trickles down his chin when he does not manage to swallow it all at once.

Mairon helps his Master down when the dark Vala's legs give way under him, moves him gently to have him sit back against the wall. The fever is still gnawing at the Maia's entire being, but nevertheless he takes a moment to admire the beauty of Melkor's spent form laid bare just for him to see. He kisses Melkor's eyelids and steals a surprisingly gentle kiss from his lips, unable still to comprehend that this is anything else but another daydream.

'You,' Melkor whispers and leans in for another kiss, lazy and slow; but he must sense the heat still underlying Mairon's every breath and it is as though it affects him as well: the kiss soon becomes demanding not of Mairon's accord and the dark Vala's tongue greedily laps at the remains of his own release on Mairon's lips and in his mouth.

'More,' Mairon whispers, breaking the kiss. His hands are shaking when he moves them impatiently down Melkor's pale body, stopping only once to tease the hardened nipples, to twist them both between his fingers in a way that wrangles a sharp gasp from the dark Vala; he loves the sound so he seeks to cause it again by way of sucking one of the nipples into his mouth as his hands move lower to Melkor's hips and then cup the firm globes of his ass.

'Mairon,' Melkor groans. He attempts to return the caress somehow, he brushes his hands ineffectually against Mairon's skin and the touch _burns_ ; Mairon growls, grabs his wrists in a swift motion and presses both against the wall on either side.

'Do not move,' he commands in a hiss and takes advantage of the dark Vala's bewilderment by diving in to kiss him with a bruising intensity. Melkor moans helplessly into the kiss, but he does not make an effort to disobey the order. It feels unreal, it feels so good, and Mairon's hands prompt Melkor to spread his legs; the position they end up in has Melkor pressed with his back against the wall, his legs on either side of Mairon's hips and his ass in Mairon's lap. The tip of Mairon's erection is sliding against the crack between Melkor's buttocks when the Maia kisses him again, and the dark Vala makes it even more maddening when his muscles inadvertently clench at the unfamiliar touch.

Mairon pushes two fingers into Melkor's mouth and watches with his eyes heavy-lidded as his Master sucks on the digits eagerly as though he wants to make up for his lack of experience. He need not worry; by now Mairon can barely string words together to form a coherent sentence and so he cares little for finesse. He pulls the fingers out – too soon maybe, but he cannot wait, he needs, he _needs_ – and then uses them to gently massage the tight ring of muscle at his Master's entrance. The dark Vala stiffens and closes his eyes, breathes in sharply; a wild part of Mairon consumed with the chaotic fever hates this hesitancy of Melkor's to fully give in to Mairon's desire.

'Mine,' the Maia growls and laps at Melkor's mouth, coaxing him into a heated kiss which serves as a momentary distraction. The dark Vala finally relaxes in his arms and Mairon begins to breach him with one saliva-coated finger. He tries to be patient, he forces himself to go slow, he presses his forehead against Melkor's shoulder and pushes his finger inside of him then pulls it out and pushes it in again, and again, until Melkor starts to thrust his hips to meet him as much as the position allows it; then he adds a second finger, moans when he imagines that tightness stretched around his straining erection, swallows down Melkor's own raspy moan. The dark Vala wraps his arms around Mairon's shoulders in an attempt to gain leverage and tries to push himself down on Mairon's fingers. His eyes are closed and his hands are trembling, and Mairon retrieves his fingers to grab the dark Vala's wrists and pin them back to the wall so harshly Melkor winces at the impact. Mairon kisses him briefly and then spits onto his hand which he then wraps around his own erection. He slicks it with his own saliva and he knows it is probably not enough, but he is beyond reason at this point; he grabs onto Melkor's hips, positions himself at his entrance and pushes inside in a single sharp thrust.

Melkor lets out a broken cry as he is breached; he clenches violently all around Mairon and tries to push him away. Mairon feels the pain when his Master's claws scratch at his skin, but it does nothing to dampen his desire. He grabs Melkor's wrists and holds them in a relentless grasp, making it impossible for his Master to fight; he bites down on Melkor's lips to steal the helpless sob that escapes them when he begins to thrust inside him and out at a fast pace.

'So good,' he groans into the dark Vala's cool skin, 'so good, m'lord, so good for me,' he repeats and moves Melkor's leg up to hook it over his shoulder thus changing the angle of his thrusts. This wrings a long moan out of Melkor's throat, not of pain but of pleasure which reverberates at the core of Mairon's being where it connects to Melkor's powerful fëa; he makes sure to aim all thrusts there and grunts when Melkor's body constricts around his length so deliciously with each sharp movement. Blindly he reaches to grasp his Master's already half-erect cock and begins to stroke it to the same rhythm with which he slides inside him. The waves of heat build up in the pit of his stomach and his thrusts become jerky and shallow, a torrent of emotion floods his mind – fear love adoration lust submission want anger love greed worship love love love _more –_ and a cry of anguish leaves his lips before

_Mine_ , he thinks and the moment explodes into hot white oblivion that burns him inside and out.

 

*

 

When Mairon awakens, he is in his own designated chambers at the lower levels of the fortress. He is clothed lightly, but for the first time since arriving in Middle-earth he does not feel the cold. His mind is wonderfully clear after what felt like centuries, but the thrill of the realization nigh-immediately gives way to horror at what he had done. Images fly past his sight of Melkor's unwilling submission to his destructive desires and Mairon cannot will them away like unwanted dreams because the proof of their honesty is glaringly obvious: the fever is gone, the last phase of the cursed cycle has ended and a new one in which Mairon is in full control over his body and mind has begun.

The part of himself previously connected to Melkor is now severed from the dark Vala because with the heat ended, the imprint is not needed anymore; Mairon wishes for a precious moment to have it back just so he could have a glimpse into the punishment which he is certain awaits him as soon as his Master realizes he is conscious.

'I really should punish you,' says Melkor from where he is seated by the window. Mairon has not seen him before, but it is likely that he was there all the same, hidden behind an illusion. He is... different from what Mairon used to know. Less – something. More something, too. His back is turned on Mairon and his long hair is braided into a messy plait that looks as though woven carelessly.

Mairon wants to fix it.

He is surprised at how much he longs to reach out and brush his fingers through the inky black tresses; to do something so simple and so ordinary that it never crossed his mind as a possibility. After what he has done, it is unlikely to happen, so he forces himself to bury the desire under layers and layers of shame and guilt.

'I will accept any punishment my lord chooses to bestow upon me,' he whispers.

The soft chuckle that answers the admission holds little mirth. 'Oh, Mairon,' says Melkor and stands up to his feet. The robe which he was wearing falls to a heap on the floor and Mairon averts his eyes to avoid spying on his Master's nudity.

'Look at me,' Melkor demands harshly.

The Maia obeys and beholds him, wide-eyed. He sees the disarrayed pattern of bruises and teeth marks that contrast starkly against the white skin of Melkor's chest and shoulders; there are also thick bruised circles around his Master's wrists where he was held by force. It is queer to see injuries of any kind mar the dark Vala's physical form, as though the impression of Mairon's assault has burned into Melkor's very spirit: but that cannot be. Unless-

'I hated the idea that you would lay with another,' says Melkor softly. His voice is still hoarse as though raw from the cries of helpless ecstasy which were wrought out of him by Mairon's lust; his eyes are dark like storm clouds as they lock onto Mairon and keep him pinned to the spot as though spell-bound.

'I hated the idea that you would choose another,' the dark Vala repeats. 'But you took what I wished not to give,' he pauses, then shakes his head. 'I wanted you wholly mine, yet I had no will to become yours in return.'

'I was always yours,' Mairon promises in a vain attempt at – he does not know.

The confession achieves nothing because it comes much too late. Melkor laughs. 'Yes, yes! You were. But not wholly. For as long as you were free of the fever, you belonged to none other in heart and soul,' he says slowly. 'I knew of some Maiar who wanted you,' he admits. 'I spied them speaking of the fever, I spied them wishing to bear your imprint. Eönwë of my brother's – he spoke often of his love for you. I thought, before I found out about your fever, that he had succeeded in securing a bond with you. I wished him harm.'

'My lord,' Mairon says, but Melkor pays him no mind.

'I understood nothing of the physicality that I so foolishly offered to you; I forced myself bound to the flesh so that I had what you needed once the fever did come, so that you could find satisfaction in my body like you would with another Maia. I thought it enough. I understood nothing,' he says and sighs. Seemingly shameless in his nudity, he comes closer to Mairon's bed and sits on the edge.

'I was weaker than you,' he mutters. 'The fever rendered you a puppet to the desires of the flesh, but it also made you capable of overpowering me. I was terrified, I did not want to submit, I struggled: and you took by force what I was not prepared to give. I should punish you. I should _kill you_ ,' says Melkor and the words come out strained.

'My lord?' Mairon inquires. He lifts his hand as though to touch his Master's shoulder in an attempt at comfort but thinks better of it. Awkwardly he places the hand back to his lap.

But Melkor suddenly reaches out, grabs him by the wrist and forcefully places Mairon's palm on his own shoulder. 'Touch me,' he demands roughly. 'Do not dare flinch away now as though I were yours to discard. I am your Master, I own you, you are mine. Do you understand? You are mine,' he exclaims and harshly pulls Mairon into a kiss that feels like insanity of fever has returned to claim the both of them; Melkor presses him down into the soft furs on the bed and kneels above him, trapping him with his larger body. His mouth tastes of sickly-sweet wine and ash and Mairon is as if intoxicated; he moans into his Master's bruising kiss as whatever drug that he has been administered thusly spreads through his entire body.

'Mine,' Melkor whispers against his lips, taking his time to undress Mairon from the light robes; the fleeting touches of his cool fingers on Mairon's dark skin are enough to make him gasp in pleasure as the drug enhances each small caress to an almost unbearable level. Or maybe there is no drug, just the helpless awareness of his Master's presence so close, too close, wrapped around him in a tight cocoon as their bodies move sensually against one another.

'Mine, mine, mine,' moans Melkor softly, gasps into Mairon's ear as he lowers himself onto Mairon's hard cock; the Maia responds with a groan that turns into a cry of ecstasy when Melkor clenches around him and laughs breathlessly at the wild look in Mairon's eyes.

'Mine,' he hisses and takes hold of Mairon's wrists, pins them to the bed above the Maia's head with one hand. The other hand he uses to play with himself; to suck on his fingers and lick them like he would a cock, to lap obscenely at his fingertips - to touch his own nipples, to pinch them mercilessly one after another between wet slick fingers in an erotic display that leaves the dark nubs hardened and makes Mairon _want_ – to wrap his fingers around his length and stroke slowly to the same torturous rhythm in which he moves his hips-

'Please,' Mairon begs breathlessly, writhing against his Master's hold on him; but Melkor easily withstands his struggles and continues to slowly pleasure himself on Mairon's cock, tight and hot and so sinfully beautiful. But even his patience ends when Mairon pleads for mercy and finally he picks up the pace with which he impales himself on Mairon, and his words come out in gasps he no longer can reign in:

'Say it,' he demands, 'say that you are mine, Mairon, say it, mine, mine,' he repeats, accentuating each word with a sharp move of his hips. His voice breaks and his eyes widen before they slide shut and then suddenly he is coming, dragging Mairon along into the throes of rapture.

He falls atop Mairon who gathers him into a loose embrace that his Master could easily escape had he wanted to; Melkor lays his head on Mairon's chest and succumbs easily to the gentle caress the Maia strokes into his scalp. If he hears the steady thrum of the spiritual energy that flows through Mairon's body, he may be mistaking it for a heartbeat: some Maiar have forms of flesh which more closely resemble the Children who are to come and so they too possess hearts which do nothing other than producing a distinct thumping noise at regular intervals. Such trifle is beneath Mairon, a waste of his time, but where his heartbeat is missing, the power of his fëa thrums instead.

'We are bonded,' he says in wonder, listening to the soft pulse of his soul mirroring Melkor's inside of his mind. He cannot tell when his own fëa ends and Melkor's starts, so seamlessly are they melded into a spiritual union.

'Yes,' Melkor confirms. He draws idle patterns on Mairon's chest with his fingernails, connects the freckles adorning Mairon's dark skin into intricate yet abstract shapes.

'I could not have forced a bond,' Mairon whispers, bewildered, for such things are unheard of; although he has to admit in shame that acts of violence as the one he committed upon his Master – acts of rape of the body – are also unheard of among his kin. He guiltily looks down on the dark Vala who chuckles in a sort of mocking amusement that he thinks should feel like scorn but does not when coupled with the soft vibration of emotion that surrounds his fëa.

'I forced it upon you,' says Melkor slowly. 'I called upon your soul, I bewitched you; I made it so that come time, you would imprint on me regardless of any of your past trysts. I manipulated you into choosing me and now you are mine.'

'I was always yours,' Mairon whispers, repeating the words from earlier and this time they ring true. A fresh wave of budding desire flows through him and he shifts on the furs with a groan that he hopes expresses his frustration with his body's unwarranted reactions.

'I fear this is a side-effect of being bonded to me,' the dark Vala explains with a lazy grin that seems to light up his face. 'The discord which causes the fever when it overflows – that energy originates from me. When you discharged it, I was able to absorb most of it, but through the bond, some of that power returned to you. I think because of this, your body will continue to experience a less severe version of the fever,' he stretches his limbs lazily. He must be aware of how tempting an image he makes. Mairon sighs and tugs on his hair which no longer even remotely resembles a braid.

'Let me do your hair,' he demands, 'and then you can _fuck me_ ,' he adds in a lower voice. He can sense the instant the words register from the sudden spike in his Master's energy flow and he thinks he knows the reason for it: the promise of reclaiming the control Melkor has given up by unwillingly submitting himself to Mairon during their first coupling.

He is not given the chance to play with his Master's hair just yet; he groans when Melkor manhandles him nigh-carelessly, when the dark Vala flips him to lay down on his stomach. He expects rough treatment fuelled by Melkor's desire to ascertain dominance and he braces himself for the inevitably painful intrusion when Melkor shifts, but he is unprepared for the hot breath and the slick wet tongue touching his entrance. He moans raggedly into his forearm, bites down on his own skin. His Master's tongue has a slightly rough surface which feels so queer as it touches him there, but so good, it feels so good as it laps at the tight opening. Melkor lifts Mairon's hips as he continues the sinful caress, and his fingers dig nigh-painfully into Mairon's hipbones; he pushes his tongue past the ring of muscle, inside of Mairon's body, again and again, he licks around and inside the quivering hole and Mairon is all but sobbing, writhing as much as his Master's grip allows him, unable to push back against that amazing tongue. His hands clench on the furs so tight he rips hairs out of the covers, and Melkor groans softly and slips a finger alongside his tongue but deeper, then another finger and one more; he draws back and allows Mairon to fuck himself on the three digits and his breath comes in short gasps.

'More, more,' Mairon begs in broken sobbing whimpers. The fur covers scratch at his face and smears the wetness of tears on his cheeks, and Mairon gasps and clenches tightly on his Master's fingers. He wants, he craves, he needs to be fucked hard and fast and rough and so _good_ -

Melkor removes his fingers all of a sudden, earning a frustrated groan from the Maia before he pulls Mairon to lay him on the side with his back flush against Melkor's chest; Mairon has little time to react to the change of position because Melkor pushes and holds his leg up, forcing his thighs apart before he slides easily inside of Mairon in a single slick thrust. His cock is so much larger than his fingers and Mairon feels as though filled completely, and it is perfect, the way his whole body seems to exist simply for the purpose of giving this kind of pleasure to his Master, like this, tight and hot and wanton-

Mairon moans and clumsily pushes back against the harsh thrusts of his Master's hips, and the world is spinning. Pain-laced pleasure builds up within him when Melkor's cock hits that spot deep inside of him again and again and again, when his Master keeps muttering incomprehensible nonsense into the nape of his neck and into his hair. Melkor's caresses are far from gentle: he bites the back of Mairon's shoulder, breaking the skin and drawing blood, he pinches Mairon's nipples and twists them, he scratches at Mairon's chest and digs his fingers into Mairon's thigh that he holds up, and this will surely leave bruises on the dark skin - and then Mairon screams words that may be Melkor's name or an admission of feelings he dares not revisit or something else entirely as he follows his Master over the edge and into the throes of rapture.

 

*

 

The most prominent change in Melkor from what he was like before is that he sleeps: wrapped around Mairon as though to steal his body heat, the dark Vala closes his eyes and falls into a shallow slumber. His breathing – breathing! He did not use to breathe before, there is no need for him to do it – his breathing becomes more regular and the aura surrounding him becomes relaxed; and Mairon takes the opportunity to truly watch his Master then, to take in all the details of his person that he doubts he will be allowed to behold once this wonderful daydream ends.

He notes how the long and thick eyelashes throw a shade on Melkor's pale high cheekbones; how the smooth skin on his Master's face is marked in a few spots with barely visible freckles. There is a visible bump at the bridge of Melkor's nose, as if a memento of an injury and Mairon almost laughs to himself as he imagines his Master having his nose broken by his brother in a quarrel in their youthful days.

He sighs softly when his gaze is drawn to his Master's lips. He remembers with sudden clarity the first time he saw the dark Vala in corporeal form: a dark silhouette lurking in the shadows in Aulë's forges; emboldened by the praise he had received from his former Master on that day, Mairon approached the trespasser and bade him gone. Melkor's lips drew his attention even then; pale, full and sensual, almost like a female's: as if they did not belong on a manly face. On anyone else, Mairon thinks, such lips would look ridiculous, but Melkor's entire form looks as though sculpted by the most talented of all artists. Melkor is – beautiful.

The black tresses of Melkor's long hair make a messy halo around his head. Mairon gently brushes a strand from his Master's forehead, marvelling at the silky softness. It is a wonder that despite his lack of care, even through the strongest winds and thunderstorms there are no knots in Melkor's hair. Mayhaps Melkor is unaware that hair can get tangled; it seems that the laws bestowed upon the world by the Music only apply to the dark Vala if he realizes that they exist.

'Which is why you are the only rightful ruler of the world,' Mairon whispers, leaning in to place a brief kiss on Melkor's lips. They part under the touch and Mairon sighs softly, allowing himself the privilege of deepening the kiss. His Master is still asleep, but his body, so new to physicality, already stirs in response to the intimacy of the caress. Mairon gently slides his tongue between Melkor's lips, tastes the inside of his mouth; being allowed this makes him once more consider if what is happening is not merely a fantasy conjured up by his fever-ridden mind. But no; when he moves, the bite wound on the back of his shoulder stings a little and he feels a sort of pulsating discomfort – not-quite pain – in his nether regions. It does not bother him in the least; rather it reminds him of his Master's passion, that it was likely real and not a frenzied daydream.

'Ungh,' mutters Melkor in his sleep and shifts; as a result, most of his naked body is revealed from underneath the covers. Mairon draws away from the kiss; he is content to simply gaze for a while longer, to admire: the strong lines of Melkor's body, his broad chest littered with bites and scratches all left there by Mairon's pleasure, the narrow hips marked by large dark bruises that can be recognized as hand imprints. Mairon trails his fingers gently over one of the bruises, eliciting a dreamy gasp from his Master's lips. He smiles and continues the exploration: he traces the long scratch mark that goes all the way down Melkor's inner thigh, noting with amazement how the dark Vala's legs spread for him. He brushes Melkor's impressive cock with a single finger and predictably it hardens at the touch. Mairon moans softly, feeling a kind of anticipation build up in the pit of his stomach; he takes his Master's length into his hand and strokes it slowly to full hardness. This is what finally wakes the dark Vala.

'Hnn... Mairon,' he groans and licks his lips. The Maia immediately follows the movement of his tongue with his own. Melkor welcomes the kiss with a pleased sound in the back of his throat as though a purr. He does nothing to stop Mairon from touching him and even encourages it by thrusting his hips into Mairon's hand.

'My lord,' the Maia whispers against Melkor's lips. His mouth waters at the thought that springs to his mind of sucking his Master's cock; he kisses the dark Vala's jawline and traces the trails of bite marks down his neck and chest with his tongue, moving downwards. He smiles at the little shiver that goes through his Master's entire body when he sucks on one of the nipples.

'So sensitive,' he murmurs into his Master's skin. Despite his growing impatience which has everything to do with arousal, he remains focused on the hardened nubs, lavishing them with attention; he sucks on one and licks it and tugs on it with his teeth while pinching the other between his fingers and twisting it gently. He loves his Master's small gasps of pleasure at the teasing, the way Melkor cannot help but push into the caress and his hands curl into fists to clutch at the furs covering the bed.

'Uhn... You have a most intriguing gift,' Melkor says breathlessly, then moans softly when Mairon speeds up the movement of the hand wrapped around his cock.

'What kind of gift is that, my lord?' Asks the Maia, looking up at his Master. He surprises himself with how calm his own voice sounds, as though completely unaffected by the desire which he feels at the beautiful display Melkor makes when laid bare like this for Mairon to worship.

'You – you ruin me so easily,' the dark Vala whispers. 'You only need touch me and I am defeated by you, I am owned by you; worse yet, I have no will to fight it...'

Mairon kisses him, swallowing all further words if there are any. Melkor wraps his arms around Mairon's shoulders, holding him close as the Maia claims his lips. It is impossible to find a fitting response to the accusation; to explain how Melkor is his fall and his rise, his everything: how Mairon's pointless and dull existence has gained – some purpose, some meaning – since the moment their eyes met for the first time in the forges of Aulë in the blessed lands. Instead he lets his actions speak; he plants little kisses alongside Melkor's cheekbones and jaw – he kisses the dark Vala's eyelids and the tip of his nose – he laughs at Melkor's confused look – he entangles his hands into Melkor's hair to gently massage his scalp, eliciting a drawn-out moan of contentment. Struck with inspiration, he moves on to Melkor's neck and shoulders. He slowly works out the kinks in his Master's body; he pushes Melkor to lay on his stomach and kneels between his thighs to continue the ministrations on the dark Vala's back.

'Such talented hands you have,' Melkor says in a voice heavily laced with arousal.

'I aim to please,' replies Mairon and strokes down his Master's spine with his fingers until he reaches the cleft of Melkor's ass; he grabs the globes of flesh with both hands and kneads them, drawings short moans from Melkor which go straight to his groin. For but a short moment he still entertains the idea of sucking Melkor's pretty cock before he decides that particular pleasure can wait. Instead, he spreads Melkor's buttocks and slides his own hard length between them, not yet attempting to breach the tight opening. He hears Melkor's breathing become ragged – he feels Melkor's fëa struggle with the desire for submission – he leans in and whispers breathy words of reassurance.

'It is not shameful to want this,' he promises softly, kissing the pointed tip of Melkor's ear. 'It does not make you weak in my eyes, my lord; the pleasures you desire have no bearing on your might-'

'I – I did not think they did,' his Master protests, but the flush of embarrassment that spreads on his face tells a different story.

'You deserve to be pampered and lavished with attention, my lord,' says Mairon, drawling out the honorific. He blows a warm huff of air into Melkor's ear, causing him to shiver.

'Allow me to make you feel good,' he pleads, scraping his fingernails against the spot just below Melkor's jaw, smiling when the dark Vala leans into the caress.

'Allow yourself to enjoy the freedom of relinquishing control,' he whispers.

To that, Melkor groans and averts his gaze. 'Only you,' he mutters, 'only you – yes, o precious cunning flame; so be it! I bid you do with me as you will: I give myself into your power!'

Elation almost overpowers Mairon and he barely is able to breathe. For a brief moment, it is as though his entire being has become wrapped in a thick blanket of warm fondness that seems to radiate off of Melkor's soul to his in waves. It is impossible to move, it is impossible to do anything but _feel_ as a kind of emotional fulfilment flows over Mairon's very core. He sighs in contentment; the moment, however, is broken when Melkor grunts impatiently.

'Why would you stop now when you have my permission to continue,' the dark Vala asks, throwing Mairon a puzzled look behind his shoulder. He props himself on his elbow as he half-turns towards his lieutenant as though expecting an immediate answer.

Mairon smiles. 'I simply paused to admire the beauty of your form, my lord,' he says smoothly and runs a hand down Melkor's side in a fleeting caress.

'I can tell when you lie,' the dark Vala reminds him drily, 'and I am of half a mind to get up and leave. I will not tolerate lies-'

'I apologize, my lord,' says Mairon. He pulls his Master to lie on his back and kisses him briefly. 'Let me make it up to you,' he adds and moves down his pale body to finally wrap his mouth around Melkor's cock. It elicits a gasp of pleasure-laced surprise from the dark Vala, whose hands find purchase in Mairon's hair; they tighten when Mairon begins to suck, humming softly as he works his Master's hard length with his tongue and lips. He loves the taste of Melkor, he loves the little raspy noises the dark Vala makes, he loves the hands tangled in his hair and the legs hooked around his shoulders. He loves the tightness of Melkor's body when breached with two fingers at once, the jerk of his hips at the suddenness of the intrusion, the way his Master tenses and then slowly relaxes to the deliberate movement of Mairon's fingers. The dark Vala's large cock hits the back of Mairon's throat, almost choking him every time when Mairon bobs his head to take it deeper, and he moans around his mouthful, causing a vibration which, coupled with the fingers pressing against a pleasure spot inside of him makes Melkor cry out and pull Mairon up by the hair, and then he is coming-

Licking his lips to taste his Master's release, most of which has splattered on his cheek and chin, Mairon sighs happily. Melkor looks down at him from underneath those thick long dark eyelashes; there is a faint blush adorning his face. Mairon decides that he likes this look on his Master.

'What are you smiling about?' Asks Melkor. He traces Mairon's lower lip with two of his fingers and gasps when Mairon licks his fingertips.

'You, my lord,' the Maia replies. 'I... this happiness you have graced me with. Am I truly deserving of it? Am I worthy of sharing such a permanent connection with? Would you not have liked it be someone different... like Arien, or like Varda of the Stars?...'

'Do not speak of them here,' Melkor demands. 'Do not think of them, either. Have I not made it clear? I chose you, Mairon. You and nobody else. I have given myself to you. Do you need more proof that you are worthy?'

To that, Mairon has no answer. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and moves up to kiss Melkor's jaw. He is still hard, desire still thrums like a river current throughout his spirit. It will, for quite some time longer. Right now, it feels as though he will never have enough of this.

'Thank you, my lord,' he says softly into Melkor's hair, and with his hands and lips he paints a confession on the canvas of Melkor's white skin.

The fever – most of it has passed, he thinks. What is left is more like an aftershock. An itch, a pang of hunger. And he is allowed to satisfy this craving. He is allowed to take and to give, and to-

Maybe, to love.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse. I will see myself out.


End file.
